35 weeks into her rainbow pregnancy, the author reflects on the complex emotions of grief after miscarriage. From trauma and guilt to hope and healing, this honest account explores the mental toll of pregnancy after loss.

On 29 January 2025 our first baby would have been due. Instead, I was 22 weeks pregnant with their rainbow brother.

I’ve blinked and I’m now 35 weeks pregnant.

Can we talk about the contradiction of grieving a loss whilst pregnant and the absolute brain-f**k it presents?

I already know so much about our rainbow baby. Their name. Their gender. Features of their tiny face. The fact they are a wriggler and love car journeys.

I know we are unbelievably blessed to be in this position and I wouldn’t change it for the world -but can we talk about the contradiction of grieving a loss whilst pregnant and the absolute brain-f**k it presents?

Let me take you back a bit.

I was completely overwhelmed to find I was pregnant in May 2024. Neither my partner or I wanted to call what we were doing ‘trying to conceive’ as we didn’t want to put pressure on ourselves or create disappointment – so it was incredible to see those two blue lines appear.

I could visualise my life as a mother instantly. I’d always known I wanted to be a mother and it was as if my time had come. Everything had fallen into place – or so I thought.

I had the best few weeks, having a wonderful summer. I went to the British Grand Prix and was a bridesmaid at my best friend’s wedding – thinking they were all memories I’d be able to share with our child.

The day before my 12 week dating scan, I started spotting. I’d had a private scan at seven weeks and they’d identified a SCH. After a call to 111, we were told to attend the scan as normal and I convinced myself everything was okay.

Everything was anything but okay as it would turn out. The sonographer found that our baby had died not long after my seven week scan. It was as though the bottom had fallen out of my world. I couldn’t fathom how I had not realised my baby had died. All my precious memories were now tainted by knowing I wasn’t carrying a healthy, growing baby after all. I was living a lie in which I’d failed our baby.

I hate the term ‘missed miscarriage’ because there was no missing what came next. My local Early Pregnancy Clinic did everything they could to support me, but the spontaneous miscarriage that followed not long after was the most traumatic experience of my life. There’s little point beating around the bush! I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare, knowing the outcome with nothing I could do to stop it.

I know that’s ridiculous now – having left a literal trail of blood in my wake!

A week later, after going back to work ‘for some normality’, I suffered a significant bleed caused by retained product. I never knew it was possible to be admitted to A&E as quickly as I was without arriving in an ambulance! I worried the other people awaiting triage might be annoyed with me for jumping the queue! I know that’s ridiculous now – having left a literal trail of blood in my wake! I was fortunate that no issues were found and I was able to continue – and complete – expectant management.

After going from one trauma to another, my brain eventually shut down to the emotion of it all. I couldn’t handle the mass of thoughts, feelings, and reactions – so I didn’t. I became a stoic monolith, deciding I was fine and that was that.

The feeling I couldn’t shake however was that of failure. I had failed to bring that child safely into the world. I felt like I had failed in the primary purpose of being a woman. I had set myself an unspoken goal of having a baby by 30. I was 29 years and 21 days when I lost our baby and I felt like time was ticking away. I couldn’t fail again.

I was fortunate that my period returned promptly, 5 weeks post M-day, and I told my partner I was ready to try again. He tried to talk about whether that was actually true, but I was adamant. He’d coped with the loss by putting all his attention on protecting me, and he didn’t want to cause me any more stress (he’s my hero and forever will be).

We got pregnant again straight away.

There have been a few bumps in the road – a couple of EPC referrals, a fetal medicine consultation – but we’ve hit 35 weeks and baby boy is doing brilliantly.

Physically I’m doing really well, but mentally this second pregnancy has been a challenge.

In some respect, I only started to grieve our angel baby properly in the second half of this rainbow pregnancy.

Everyone around us – family, friends, colleagues, midwives, sonographers, consultants – have treated us so sensitively and offered us buckets of support and care, yet my mind has been going overtime, especially as we approached angel baby’s due date and now as we reach rainbow baby’s due date. In some respect, I only started to grieve our angel baby properly in the second half of this rainbow pregnancy.

I’ve felt grateful for being blessed with a new pregnancy so soon, but guilt that others haven’t been afforded this gift, too.

I’ve felt confusion and doubt as to why our pregnancy experience has been shaped as it has.

I’ve felt joy at seeing our healthy baby on the ultrasound, but anger that we had to experience heartbreak first.

I’ve felt anxiety from knowing anything could go wrong at any time, and annoyance that some parents never have to experience the pain and tainted perspectives caused by baby loss.

I’ve felt panic that our bumps in the road were real issues, but calm that we’ve already overcome the worse once before.

I’ve felt grief that I didn’t have the wonderful experiences I’m having in this pregnancy with my first baby, and shame that not many people even know our first baby existed.

I’ve felt failure I couldn’t carry our first baby, and pride that I’m carrying our second baby.

Ugly feelings, weird feeling, brain-f**k feelings! Grief! If truth be told, I know the extent of my emotional response this time is due to not fully processing what happened last time. And yet, I have felt like my second pregnancy is giving me a chance to grieve and find some peace as I reflect on my first pregnancy.

As I write this, I’m not sure what purpose I want my words to serve. Perhaps to confirm to someone also experiencing the brain-f**k of grief in pregnancy that they are not alone? Perhaps to confess my ugly feelings out loud? Perhaps to admit in public that I am only human and, as hard as I tried to avoid my feelings, succumbing to the brain-f**k has almost been healing?

Written by Laurie Carey